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"Who who did you hear it from?" demanded Rupert. Uncle Matt put his foot upon a rustic seat near and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee and making impressive gestures with his yellow-palmed old hand. "It was dishyer claimin' dat brung it about," he said; "dishyer claimin' an' 'demnification what's been a-settin' pow'fle heavy on my min' fur long 'nuff.
“We’re come from St. Louis,” she replied, taking him with a seriousness which in no wise daunted him. “Yo’ all brung de rain,” he went on sociably, leaving off the scratching of his nose, to pass his black yellow-palmed hand slowly through the now raging fire, a feat which filled her with consternation.
"I'm settin' some tukkey-eggs now under de yaller hen," said Matt, with a slyly exultant grin. "She's a good mother, the yaller hen; an' de way dem fruit-trees is gwine ter be loaded is a sight. Aunt Mary Field, she's tradin' with me a'ready agin fruit puttin'-up time." Rupert got up from his chair. He caught old Matt's dusky, yellow-palmed paw in his hand and shook it hard.
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